LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE 
TERRIBLE    MEEK 


A   ONE-ACT    STAGE    PLAY    FOR   THREE 
VOICES:    TO  BE  PLAYED  IN  DARKNESS 


BY 

CHARLES    RANN    KENNEDY 


AUTHOR  OF 
'THE  SERVANT  IN  THE  HOUSE' 


"  For  they  shall  inherit  the  earth  " 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

M  C  M  X  I  I 


LIBRARY 

\^c  /*  A  T  TTT^-DXTT  A 


ALL  STAGE,  RECITATION,  PUBLICATION,  TRANSLATION 
AND  OTHER  RIGHTS  RESERVED.  APPLICATION 
SHOULD  BE  MADE  TO  MESSRS.  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 


COPYRIGHT.  1912.    BY   CHARLES   RANN    KENNEDY 

PRINTED   IN   THE    UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 

PUBLISHED    MARCH,    1912 


TO 
MY    MOTHER 

A  NEWER  COURAGE.  MORE  LIKE 
WOMAN'S.  DEALING  WITH  LIFE.  NOT 
DEATH.  IT  CHANGES  EVERYTHING 


PERSONS   OF   THE   PLAY 

A    PEASANT  WOMAN 

AN    ARMY    CAPTAIN 

A    SOLDIER 


THE    TIME 

A    TIME    OF    DARKNESS 


THE    PLACE 

A    WIND-SWEPT    HILL 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 


Before  the  curtain  rises,  a  bell  from  some  distant 
place  of  worship  tolls  the  hour.  Nine  brazen  notes •, 
far  off,  out  of  tune.  Then  a  heavy  peal  of  thunder, 
and  the  sharp,  cracking  strike  of  a  bolt;  yet,  above 
all,  one  other  sound,  more  piercing — a  strange, 
unearthly  Cry.  There  follows  a  mighty  howling  of 
wind,  blended  with  a  confused  clamour  of  voices  and 
the  hurrying  of  many  feet.  The  noises  have  almost 
all  died  away,  when  the  Curtain  rises  upon  inky 
darkness. 

A  sudden  hush.  The  silence  deepens.  There  is  a 
sense  of  moorlands  and  desolate  places. 

Far  off,  a  cow  lows  in  her  stall.  Some  lost  sheep  down 
in  the  valley  bleats  dismally.  Silence  again. 

It  is  broken  by  the  Voice  of  a  Woman, 
weeping  bitterly.  A  PEASANT  WOMAN. 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 
WOMAN.  Oh!  ... 

Another  Voice:  the  gentlemanly,  well- 
bred  voice  of  an  army  man,  now  under 
some  stress  of  emotion.  A  CAPTAIN. 

CAPTAIN.  My  God,  this  is  awful.     I  can't  stand  it. 
WOMAN.  Oh!  ... 

CAPTAIN.  Come,  my  good  woman,  it's  all  over 
now.  There's  no  earthly  help  for  it.  You  can't 
remain  here,  you  know. 

WOMAN.  Leave  me  be.     Leave  me  be. 

CAPTAIN.  All  the  others  left  long  ago.  They  hur 
ried  off  home  the  moment — the  moment  the  storm 
came.  .  .  . 

Come,  it's  bleak  and  quite  too  dreadful  for  you  up 
on  this  hill.  Let  me  send  you  back  to  the  town  with 
one  of  the  soldiers. 

WOMAN.  One  of  the — soldiers !  .  .  . 
CAPTAIN.  Yes:   come,  come  now  .  .  . 

[2] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

WOMAN.  Leave  me  be.     Don't  touch  me.    There's 
the  smell  of  death  on  you. 

CAPTAIN.  Well,  since  you  .  .  .     And,  after  all  ... 

The  clank  and  rattle  of  his  sword  and 
uniform  mark  his  moving  away.  He 
sits. 

The  smell  of  death.     My  God,  it's  true. 

A  bitter  wind  comes  soughing  up  from 
the  valley.  The  sheep  bleats  once, 
piteously.  Then  all  is  quiet  again. 

Some  one  else  is  coming.  He  is  heard 
stumbling  blindly  up  over  the  hill,  the 
steel  butt  of  his  weapon  ringing  among 
the  stones.  A  SOLDIER. 

Groping  in  darkness,  he  collides  sud 
denly  with  the  CAPTAIN.  His  Voice 
is  that  of  a  common  man,  city-bred; 

SOLDIER.  Gawd  blimey,  wot  the  'ell  .  .  . 
Oh,  beg  pawdon,  sir.     Didn't  know  it  was  you, 
Captain. 

[3] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  That's  all  right,  sentry. 

SOLDIER.  Ton  my  word,  sir,  you  give  me  a  start, 
fust  go  orf.  Wot  with  the  storm  an'  the  darkness, 
an'  this  'ere  little  job  we  been  doin',  I  tek  my  oath 
I  thought  for  a  moment  as  you  was  .  .  .  well,  summat 
else. 

Wasn't  quite  a  nice  thing  wot  'appened  up  'ere 
just  nah,  sir,  was  it? 

CAPTAIN.  It  wasn't. 

SOLDIER.  I'm  on  guard  myself,  sir;    or  I  don't 
know  as  I'd  'a  'come  up,  not  for  choice. 
You  bin  'ere  all  the  time,  Captain  ? 

CAPTAIN.  Have  I  ?  Yes,  I  suppose  I  have.  I've 
been  here  .  .  .  ever  since. 

SOLDIER.  It's  not  exackly  the  place  ter  spend  a 
pleasant  arternoon,  is  it,  sir  ? 

CAPTAIN.  No,  I  suppose  not. 

SOLDIER.  O'  course,  there's  company,  as  you 
might  say;  but  not  quite  congenial  company,  eh  wot  ? 

[4] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  That  depends  entirely  upon  the  point 
of  view. 

SOLDIER.  Dam'  creepy,  I  call  it!  ... 

Well,  we  done  for  'im  good  an'  proper,  any'ah. 

CAPTAIN.  My  God,  yes.  We  builders  of  empire 
know  how  to  do  our  business. 

SOLDIER.  Pretty  bloody  business,  too,  ain't  it,  sir  ? 
CAPTAIN.  Yes,  that's  the  word. 

They  consider  it  for  a  moment.  Pres 
ently  the  SOLDIER  laughs  at  some 
amusing  recollection; 

SOLDIER.  It's  an  ill  wind  wot  blows  nobody 
any  good.  /  got  summat  aht  o'  this,  orl  said  an' 
done. 

CAPTAIN.  What's  that? 
SOLDIER.  I  got  some  of  'is  togs. 
CAPTAIN.  His  togs.     How  do  you  mean  ? 

[5] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

SOLDIER.  Why,  I'll  tell  yer.  'E  didn't  want  no 
more  togs,  not  the  way  'e  was  goin';  nah  did  'e  ?  So 
me  an'  the  boys,  we  got  our  'eds  together,  and  arter 
we'd  undressed  'im  an'  put  'im  to  bed,  so  to  speak,  we 
pitched  an'  tossed  for  the  'ole  bag  lot,  one  by  one,  till 
they  was  orl  bloomin'  well  divided  aht.  I  got  'is  boots. 

CAPTAIN.  You  got  his  boots,  did  you  ? 

SOLDIER.  Yes,  pore  devil.  'E  don't  want  them 
no  more.  Not  quite  my  fit;  but  they'll  do  to  tek 
'ome  for  a  keepsake — that  is,  if  we  ever  do  get  'ome 
aht  of  this  'ere  stinkin'  'ole.  My  little  missis  '11 
think  a  lot  of  them  boots. 

CAPTAIN.  They  will  be  a  pleasant  memento. 

SOLDIER.  Just  wot  7  say,  sir.  Oh,  my  missis,  she 
got  an  'oly  nose  for  'orrors:  she  reely  'ave.  Tellin' 
abaht  them  boots  '11  last  'er  a  lifetime. 

CAPTAIN.  She  must  be  an  attractive  young  wom 
an,  your — missis. 

SOLDIER.  Oh  no,  sir,  just  ordinary ,  just  ordinary. 
Suits  me,  orl  right.  .  .  . 

[6] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

Some    memory    holds    him  for    a    mo 
ment; 

Funny  thing,  Captain,  'ow  this  'ere  foreign  service 
keeps  you — well,  sort  of  thinkin',  don't  it  ?  S'pose 
it's  the  lonely  nights  an'  the  long  sentry  duties  an' 
such  like.  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN.  You've  felt  that  too,  then,  have  you  ? 

SOLDIER.  Yessir;  meks  me  think  abaht  my  missis. 
'Er  was  in  the  family  way  when  I  left  'ome, 
sir  —  expectin'  just  a  couple  of  month  arter  I 
sailed.  .  .  . 

The  little  beggar  '11  be  gettin'  on  by  nah — that  is, 
if  'e  come  orl  right. 

CAPTAIN.  You've  made  up  your  mind  for  a  boy 
then,  eh  ? 

SOLDIER.  She  allus  'oped  for  a  boy,  sir.  Women's 
like  that.  S'pose  it's  orl  right;  it's  men  wot's  wanted 
these  days,  wot  with  the  Army  an'  the  Spread  of  Em 
pire  an'  orl  that. 

CAPTAIN.  Yes,  they  make  better  killing. 

2  [7] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

The   SOLDIER   is   rather  stupid,   or   he 
would  have  laughed.     He  goes  on; 

SOLDIER.  Yessir,  'er's  bin  'ankerin'  arter  a  kid 
ever  since  we  was  married  six  year  ago;  but  some- 
'ow  or  other  it  never  seemed  to  come  orf.  'Ealthy 
woman,  too,  sir.  You  unnerstand  'ow  these  things 
is,  Captain:  there's  no  tellin'.  Little  beggars  come 
by  guess  an'  by  Gawd,  it  seems  to  me.  .  .  . 

I  wonder  if  it's  a  boy.  There's  no  gettin'  no  news 
aht  in  this  blarsted.  .  .  . 

Good  Gawd,  wot's  that  ?  .  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN.  What? 

SOLDIER.  Be'ind  us.  Summat  sort  of  ...  There, 
'ark! 

The  WOMAN'S  Voice  rises,  sighing  like 
wind; 

WOMAN.  Oh!  ... 

SOLDIER.  My  Gawd,  wot  is  it  ? 

CAPTAIN.  It's  a  woman. 
[8] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

SOLDIER.  A  woman!    Up  'ere? 

CAPTAIN.  She  has  every  right  to  be  here.     This 
is  her  place. 

SOLDIER.  But  does  she  know  ?     Does  she  know 
wot's  .  .  .  danglin'  up  yonder,  over  'er  'ed  ? 

CAPTAIN.  She  knows  more  than  we  do.     She  be 
longs  to  him.     She  is  his  mother. 

SOLDIER.  'Is  mother!  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN.  Yes,  he  was  her  baby  once. 

The  SOLDIER  ts  affected  by  this.  He 
speaks  with  real  compassion; 

SOLDIER.  Pore  devil! 

Their  minds  go  wandering  through 
many  troubled  by-paths  of  thought. 
Presently  the  SOLDIER  speaks  again; 

Wot  was  it  'e  done,  Captain  ? 
CAPTAIN.  Don't  you  know  ? 

[9] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

SOLDIER.  Not  exackly.  I  got  enough  to  look 
arter  with  my  drills  an'  vittles  withaht  messin' 
abaht  with  politics  an'  these  'ere  funny  foreign 
religions. 

CAPTAIN.  And  yet  you,  if  I  mistake  not,  were  one 
of  the  four  men  told  off  to  do  the  job. 

SOLDIER.  Well,  I  'ope  I  know  my  duty,  sir.  I 
on'y  obeyed  orders.  Come  to  that,  sir,  arskin' 
your  pawdon,  it  was  you  as  give  them  orders.  I 
s'pose  you  knew  orl  right  wot  it  was  'e  done  ? 

CAPTAIN.  No,  I  don't  know  exactly,  either.  I 
am  only  just  beginning  to  find  out.  We  both  did 
our  duty,  as  you  call  it,  in  blindness. 

SOLDIER.  That's  strange  langwidge  to  be  comin' 
from  your  lips,  Captain. 

CAPTAIN.  Strange  thoughts  have  been  coming  to 
me  during  the  last  six  hours. 

SOLDIER.  It's  difficult  to  know  wot's  wot  in  these 
outlandish  places.  It's  not  like  at  'ome,  sir,  where 
there's  Law  an'  Order  an'  Patriotism  an'  Gawd's 

[10] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

Own  True  Religion.  These  blarsted  'eathens  got 
no  gratitude.  'Ere's  the  Empire  sweatin'  'er  guts 
aht,  tryin'  ter  knock  some  sense  inter  their  dam' 
silly  'eds;  an'  wot  do  you  get  aht  of  it,  orl  said  an' 
done  ?  Nuthin' !  Nuthin'  but  a  lot  of  ingratitude, 
'ard  words,  insurrections,  an'  every  nah  an'  then  a 
bloody  example  like  this  'ere  to-day!  Oh,  these 
foreigners  mek  me  sick,  they  do  reely! 

CAPTAIN.  Yes,  perhaps  that  has  been  the  real 
mistake  all  along. 

SOLDIER.  Wot  'as,  Captain  ? 

CAPTAIN.  Taking  these  people — men  like  this  one, 
for  instance — for  foreigners. 

SOLDIER.  Well,  you'll  excuse  me,  sir,  but  wot  the 
'ell  else  are  they  ? 

CAPTAIN.  I'm  not  quite  sure  ;  but  supposing 
they  were  more  nearly  related  ?  Supposing,  aft 
er  all,  they  happened  to  be  made  of  the  same 
flesh  and  blood  as  you  and  me  ?  Supposing  they 
were  men  ?  Supposing,  even,  they  were  —  broth 
ers  ? 

t»3 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

SOLDIER.  Brothers!    Why,  that's  exackly  wot  'e 
used  ter  say — 'im  up  there.  .  .  . 
Did  you  ever  'ear  'im,  sir  ? 

CAPTAIN.  Once.     Did  you  ? 
SOLDIER.  Once. 

They  remain  silent  for  a  little. 

It  was  politics  when  I  'eard  'im.     On'y  it  sahnded 
more  like  some  rummy  religion. 

CAPTAIN.  When   I   heard   him   it  was   religion — 
sounding  curiously  like  politics. 

SOLDIER.  Them  two  things  don't  'ardly  seem  to 
go  together,  do  they,  sir  ? 

CAPTAIN.  They  don't.     Perhaps  they  ought  to. 

SOLDIER.  I  don't  know.     Seems  to  'ave  led  Vra 
into  a  pretty  mess.  .  .  . 
It's  a  queer  world !  .  .  . 
I  wonder  wot  it  was  'e  reely  done. 

[12] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  It's  rather  late  in  the  day  for  us  to 
be  considering  that,  seeing  what  we  have  done, 
isn't  it  ? 

SOLDIER.  Well,  I  don't  know.  P'r'aps  it's  funny 
of  me,  but  I  never  done  a  job  like  this  yet  withaht 
thinkin'  abaht  it  arterwards.  .  .  .  An'  I  done  a  few  of 
'em,  too. 

If  you  arsk  me,  sir,  it  was  them — well,  them  long- 
faced  old  jossers  dahn  there  as  begun  the  'ole 
beastly  business.  You  know  'oo  I  mean. 

CAPTAIN.  Yes,  I  know  whom  you  mean.  But 
haven't  they  a  name  ? 

SOLDIER.  Well,  I  'ardly  know  wot  ter  call  them, 
sir.  They're  like  a  lot  of  old  washerwomen.  Allus 
jawin'.  We  got  nuthin'  exackly  like  that  sort  at 
'ome,  sir. 

CAPTAIN.  Oh,  I  don't  know  that  there's  all  that 
difference. 

SOLDIER.  They  was  allus  naggin'  the  pore  fellow, 
one  way  an'  another.  Couldn't  leave  'im  alone. 
They  started  the  'ole  business. 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  Why,  what  fault  did  they  find  with 
him  ?  What  was  it  they  said  he  did  ? 

SOLDIER.  It  wasn't  nuthin'  'e  done,  far  as  I  could 
mek  aht.  It  was  summat  as  'e  said,  wot  riled  them. 

CAPTAIN.  Something  he  said  ? 

SOLDIER.  Yes,  summat  'orrible;  that's  wot  they 
said.  Summat  too  bad  ter  be  spoken,  summat  they 
wasn't  a-goin'  ter  stand  from  anybody.  Least,  that's 
wot  I  'eard.  .  .  . 

Wasn't  so  very  'orrible,  neither.  Not  ter  me. 
Sahnded  a  bit  mad,  that's  orl. 

CAPTAIN.  Oh,  then  you  know  what  it  was  ? 

SOLDIER.  Yessir.  They  'ad  a  name  for  it,  too: 
on'y  I  can't  quite  remember.  One  of  them  big  jaw- 
crackers,  you  unnerstand.  Seems  a  bit  orf  for  a 
bloke  ter  come  ter  this,  just  for  usin'  a  few  words. 

CAPTAIN.  There  is  great  power  in  words.  All  the 
things  that  ever  get  done  in  the  world,  good  or  bad, 
are  done  by  words. 

SOLDIER.  Well,    there's    summat    in    that,    too. 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

On'y  this  thing  'e  said — blimey,  it  was  nuthin'! 
There  ain't  a  loony  alive  wot  doesn't  say  the  same 
thing  'e  said,  an'  more,  a  thahsand  times  a  day, 
when  'e's  reel  bad  in  'is  'ead.  At  the  most,  it  sahnded 
like  a  bit  of  langwidge,  that's  orl. 

CAPTAIN.  And  you  don't  mind  that,  do  you  ? 

SOLDIER.  Me  ?  'E  could  'a'done  it  till  'e  was  blue 
in  the  face  an'  welcome,  far  as  I'd  care. 

CAPTAIN.  You  yourself,  of  course,  had  nothing  at 
all  against  him  ?  Nothing  personal,  nothing  politi 
cal,  I  mean.  No  more  than  I  had. 

SOLDIER.  Lor'  bless  you,  no,  sir.     Rawther  liked 

'im,  the  bit  I  saw  of  'im. 
P 

CAPTAIN.  Only  they — the  long-faced  gentlemen- 
found  him  guilty.  So,  of  course,  they  had  to  hand 
him  over  to  the  magistrate. 

SOLDIER.  Yes,  blarst  them.  What  did  they  want 
ter  go  an'  do  that  for  ? 

CAPTAIN.  It  was  perhaps  their — duty,  don't  you 
see'? 

3  [15] 


THE    TERRIBLE     MEEK 

SOLDIER  (taken  aback  on  the  sacred  word).  Oh, 
was  it  ?  Well,  since  you  put  it  in  that  way,  o' 
course.  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN.  Then,  again,  came  the  magistrate's  duty. 
I  suppose  he  found  he  had  some  duty  in  the  matter  ? 
Did  he  very  much  object  to  this  horrible  thing  that 
had  been  said  ? 

SOLDIER.  Not  much!  'E  ain't  that  sort,  not  this 
fellow!  .  .  . 

That's  the  funny  thing  abaht  it.  Far  as  I  could 
'ear,  there  weren't  no  mention  of  that,  by  the  time  the 
case  come  into  'is  'ands.  No,  it  was  riotin'  an' 
stirrin'  people  up  agen  the  government,  as  'e  on'y  'ad 
ter  deal  with. 

CAPTAIN.  Was  that  charge  proved  against  the 
prisoner  ? 

SOLDIER.  They  'ad  witnesses,  I  suppose.  On'y 
you  know  wot  witnesses  are,  in  a  case  like  this,  sir. 
Got  their  orders,  you  unnerstand. 

CAPTAIN.  And,  of  course,  they  all  did  their  duty. 
That  sacred  obligation  was  attended  to.  They  obeyed. 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

SOLDIER.  I  don't  know.  Don't  arsk  me.  I  know 
nuthin'  abaht  it. 

He  is  a  little  nettled  at  the  turn  the  con 
versation  is  taking. 

CAPTAIN.  Was  there  no  one,  from  among  all  those 
crowds  that  followed  him,  to  stand  up  and  say  a 
word  for  him  ? 

SOLDIER.  Well,  wot  do  you  think  ?  Them  greasy 
blighters!  You  saw  'ow  they  be'aved  just  nah, 
when  we  done  the  job. 

CAPTAIN.  Their  duty,  as  voicers  of  public  opinion, 
I  suppose. 

SOLDIER  (sullenly).  I  don't  know. 

CAPTAIN.  Had  they  any  very  strong  feelings 
against  this  monstrous  thing  he  said  ?  Were  they 
so  stirred  with  affection  for  the  government  ?  Or 
didn't  their  duty  cover  those  unessential  points  ? 

. 

SOLDIER.  I  don't  know. 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  Well  then,  this  magistrate?  Having 
examined  this  poor  wretch  in  the  presence  of  all  that 
exemplary,  patriotic,  obedient  mob  of  people,  he  soon 
found  out  where  his  duty  lay  ?  It  was  his  duty  to 
hand  him  over  to  us — to  you  and  me. 

SOLDIER  (shortly).  Yessir. 

CAPTAIN  (insisting).  To  you  and  me. 

SOLDIER.  I  said,  Yessir. 

CAPTAIN.  Whereupon,  though  we  were  practically 
ignorant  as  to  the  charge  upon  which  this  man  was 
convicted:  though  we  had  grave  doubts  as  to 
whether  he  were  guilty  at  all;  and  while  it  is  perfect 
ly  certain  that  we  had  nothing  against  him  personally, 
that  we  even  liked  him,  sympathized  with  him,  pitied 
him:  it  became  our  duty,  our  sworn,  our  sacred  duty, 
to  do  to  him — the  terrible  thing  we  did  just  now. 

SOLDIER.  I  can't  see  wot  you're  drivin'  at,  sir. 
You  wouldn't  'ave  a  man  go  agen  'is  duty,  would 
you  ? 

CAPTAIN.  I'm  trying  to  make  up  my  mind.     I 
[18] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

don't  know.     I'm  blind.     I  don't  think  I  know  what 
duty  is. 

SOLDIER.  It's  perfectly  plain,  sir.  Arter  all,  duty 
is  duty,  ain't  it  ? 

CAPTAIN.  Yes,  it  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  much 
else. 

SOLDIER.  'Ow  do  you  mean,  sir  ? 

CAPTAIN.  Well,  for  instance,  it  doesn't  seem  to  be 
love  or  neighborliness  or  pity  or  understanding  or  any 
thing  that  comes  out  hot  and  fierce  from  the  heart 
of  a  man.  Duty!  Duty!  We  talk  of  duty!  What 
sort  of  devil's  duties  are  there  in  the  world,  do  you 
think,  when  they  lead  blindly,  wantonly,  wickedly, 
to  the  murder  of  such  a  man  as  this  ! 

SOLDIER.  Well,  far  as  I'm  concerned,  I  on'y 
obeyed  my  orders. 

CAPTAIN.  Orders!    Obeyed  orders! 

SOLDIER.  Well,  sir,  it  was  you  as  give  them  to 


me. 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  Good  God,  man,  why  didn't  you  strike 
me  in  the  blasphemous  teeth,  the  hour  I  gave  them  ? 

SOLDIER.  Me,  sir?     Strike  my  superior  orficer! 

CAPTAIN.  You  struck  this  defenceless  man.  You 
had  no  scruples  about  his  superiority.  You  struck 
him  to  the  death. 

SOLDIER  (hotly).  I  on'y  did  my  duty! 

CAPTAIN.  We  have  murdered  our  brother.  We 
have  destroyed  a  woman's  child. 

SOLDIER.  I  on'y  obeyed  my  orders.  When  my 
superior  orficer  says,  Kill  a  man,  why,  I  just  kill  'im, 
that's  orl.  O'  course  I  kill  'im.  Wot's  a  soldier  for  ? 
That's  duty!  (With  sudden  lust.)  Blood  an'  'ell! 
I'd  kill  'im  soon  as  look  at  'im,  yes,  I  would,  if  'e 
was  Gawd  aht  of  'Eaven,  'Imself!  .  .  . 

Not  as  I  'ave  anythin'  personal  agen  this  pore 
devil.  On'y  I  do  know  my  duty. 

They  are  silent  for  a  little  while.  Then 
the  SOLDIER,  feeling  that  he  has  gone 
too  far,  begins  assuaging  the  situation; 

[20] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

There's  one  thing  certain:  it's  no  use  cryin'  over 
spilt  milk.  'E's  dead  an'  done  for  nah,  wotever 
comes.  Dead  as  a  door-nail,  pore  cuss. 

The  CAPTAIN,  who  has  risen  during  his 
excitement,  now  sits  down  again. 
His  sword  clatters  against  a  boulder. 

A  pause. 

'E  ain't  the  fust  man  I  done  for,  neither;  an'  I 
bet  'e  won't  be  the  last.  Not  by  a  long  way. 

He  speaks  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  It  is 
the  way  in  which  shame  comes  to  a 
soldier. 


Ap 


ause. 


CAPTAIN   (deeply).  So  you  think  he  is  dead,  do 


you  ? 


SOLDIER.  Well,  wot  do  you  think  ?  A  man  don't 
live  forever,  'ung  up  as  'igh  as  we  got  Jim  yonder. 
Besides,  we  did  a  bit  of  business  with  'is  vital  parts, 
arter  we'd  got  'im  up  there. 

[21] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  And  all  that,  you  think,  means — death. 

SOLDIER.  Well,  don't  it? 
CAPTAIN.  That's  what  I'm  wondering. 
SOLDIER.  Six  hours,  mind  you.     It's  a  long  time. 
CAPTAIN.  There  is  something  mightier  than  time. 

SOLDIER.  Well,  they  don't  supply  little  boys'  play 
things,  not  from  our  War  Office.  One  of  these  'ere 
beauties.  .  .  . 

He  rattles  his  weapon  in  the  darkness 
and  continues; 

.  .  .  when  they  do  start  business,  generally  touch  the 
spot. 

CAPTAIN.  It  would  have  to  reach  very  far,  to 
touch — this  man's  life. 

SOLDIER.  Nah,  wotever  do  you  mean,  Captain  ? 
CAPTAIN.  I  mean  that  life  is  a  terrible,  a  wonder- 

[22] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

ful  thing.  You  can't  kill  it.  All  the  soldiers  in  the 
world,  with  all  their  hate,  can't  kill  it.  It  comes 
back,  it  can't  die,  it  rises  again. 

SOLDIER.  Good  Gawd,  Captain,  don't  you  talk 
like  that! 

CAPTAIN.  Why,  what  are  you  afraid  of?  We 
have  shown  great  courage  to-day,  you  and  I.  Soldiers 
should  be  brave,  you  know. 

SOLDIER.  That's  orl  very  well,  when  it's  a  matter 
of  plain  flesh  an'  blood;  but  LorM     Ghosts!  .  .  . 
Do  you  believe  in  them,  sir  ? 

CAPTAIN.  What? 
SOLDIER.  Ghosts. 
CAPTAIN.  Yes.  It  came  to  me  to-day. 

SOLDIER  (slowly).  If  I  believed  there  was  reely 
ghosts  abaht.  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN.  They  are  the  only  realities.  Two  of 
them  ought  to  be  especially  important  to  you  and 
me  just  now. 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

SOLDIER.  Two?     Blimey!     'Oose  ? 

CAPTAIN.  Why,  yours,  man,  and  mine.  Our 
ghosts.  Our  immortal  ghosts.  This  deed  of  ours 
to-day  should  make  us  think  of  them  forever. 

SOLDIER.  Yours  an'  mine  ?  I  didn't  know  we  'ad 
ghosts,  you  an'  me, 

CAPTAIN.  It  makes  a  difference,  doesn't  it  ?  There 
have  been  millions  of  our  sort  in  the  long  history  of 
the  world.  I  wonder  how  many  more  millions  there 
will  be  in  the  years  to  come.  Blind,  dutiful,  bloody- 
handed  :  murderers,  all  of  us.  A  soldier's  ghost  must 
be  a  pitiable  thing  to  see. 

The  cloudy  darkness  slightly  lifts  from 
the  ground.  Their  forms  can  be 
dimly  discerned — vague  shadows  upon 
a  deeper  gloom.  Up  above  there  still 
dwells  impenetrable  night. 

Tell  me,  brother  murderer,  have  you  ever  prayed  ? 

SOLDIER.  Me,  sir  ?  .  .  .  (Ashamed.)  Well,  sir,  nah 
you  arsk  me,  yes  I  'ave — once. 

[24] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  When  was  that  ? 

SOLDIER.  Why,  sir,  abaht  a  couple  of  month  arter 
I  set  sail  for  this  blarsted  little  'ole. 

CAPTAIN.  I  understand.     You  prayed  then  for  the 
birth  of  an  innocent  child  ? 


SOLDIER.  Yessir. 

CAPTAIN.  You  will  have  need  to  pray  again  to 
night.  Both  of  us  will  have  need.  This  time  for 
the  death  of  an  innocent  man. 

The  SOLDIER  is  embarrassed.  He  does 
not  know  what  to  say.  Something 
about  "duty"  comes  into  his  head; 
but  somehow  it  seems  inappropriate. 

A  brighter  thought  occurs  to  him; 

SOLDIER.  Well,  it's  time  I  was  dahn  yonder, 
lookin'  arter  the  boys.  Any  orders,  sir  ? 

CAPTAIN.  Orders  ?     No,  no  more — orders. 
SOLDIER.  Orl  right,  sir. 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

There  is  heard  the  rattle  of  his  salute, 
and  the  dying  away  of  his  footsteps,  as 
he  stumbles  blindly  up  and  over  the 
hill 

The  CAPTAIN  does  not  speak  until  all  is 
still  again. 

CAPTAIN.  My  God!    My  God!    Oh,  my  God! 

He  buries  his  face  in  the  dirt  and 
stones. 

The  faintest  moaning  of  wind.  The 
sheep  bleats.  A  dog,  disturbed  by  the 
sound,  barks,  far  off.  Then  there  is 
a  deep  silence,  lasting  one  minute. 

The  Voice  of  the  PEASANT  WOMAN  is 
heard,  speaking  at  first  in  dull,  dead 
tones,  very  slowly; 

WOMAN.  Thirty-three  year  ago  he  was  my  baby. 
I  bore  him.  I  warmed  him:  washed,  dressed  him: 
fended  for  him.  I  fed  his  little  mouth  with  milk. 
Thirty-three  year  ago.  And  now  he's  dead. 

[26] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

Dead,  that's  what  he  is.  Dead.  Hung  up  in  the 
air  like  a  thief:  broken  and  bleeding  like  a  slaughtered 
beast.  All  the  life  gone  out  of  him.  And  I'm  his 
mother. 

A  gray,  misty  light  creeps  over  her  face 
and  hands.  Moment  by  moment,  her 
features  limn  out  faintly  through  the 
darkness,  one  pale  agony. 
Her  garments  still  blend  with  the  general 
gloom. 

That's  what  they  done  to  my  son.  Killed  him 
like  a  beast.  Respectable  people,  they  was.  Priests, 
judges,  soldiers,  gentlemen:  even  common  folk  like 
me.  They  done  it.  And  now  he's  dead. 

He  didn't  hold  with  their  kind,  my  son.  He  was 
always  telling  them  about  it.  He  would  stand  up 
open  in  the  market-place,  at  the  street  corners,  even 
in  the  House  of  God  itself,  and  tell  them  about  it. 
That's  why  they  killed  him. 

He  had  a  strange  way  with  him,  my  son:  always 
had,  from  the  day  he  first  come.  His  eyes.  .  .  .  They 
was  wonderful.  They  held  folk.  That  and  his 
tongue  and  his  tender,  pitiful  heart. 

[27] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

They  didn't  understand  it  down  here.  None  of 
us  understood  it.  We  was  blind  —  even  me.  Many 
a  time  I  got  in  his  way  and  tried  to  hinder  him:  I 
was  afraid  for  him,  ashamed.  And  then  he'd  look 
at  me.  .  .  . 

They  was  always  wonderful,  his  eyes. 

He  wasn't  particular,  my  son.  He  would  go  with 
anybody.  He  loved  them  so.  There  wasn't  a 
drunken  bibber  in  the  place,  not  a  lozel,  not  a  thief, 
not  a  loose  woman  on  the  streets,  but  called  him 
brother.  He  would  eat  with  them,  drink  with  them, 
go  to  their  parties.  He  would  go  with  grand  folk, 
too:  gentlemen.  He  wasn't  particular:  he  would 
go  with  anybody. 

And  I  tried  to  hinder  him:  I  got  in  his  way,  be 
cause  I  was  ashamed.  I  kept  pushing  in.  I  was 
afraid  of  what  the  people  might  think.  Like  I  was 
blind.  Like  I  didn't  understand.  I  never  told  him 
as  I  understood.  And  now  it's  too  late.  He's 
dead. 

A  gust  of  anguish  takes  her,  overwhelm- 
g  her; 


n 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

Oh,  my  son,  my  own  son,  child  of  my  sorrow,  my 
lad,  come  back  to  me !  It's  me,  it's  your  mother,  call 
ing  to  you.  Cannot  you  hear  me  out  of  the  lone 
waste  and  the  darkness  yonder?  My  lad,  come 
back,  come  back  to  me!  .  .  . 

He's  gone.  I  shall  never  know  the  touch  and  the 
healing  gladness  of  him  again,  my  son,  my  little 
lad Hark!  .  .  . 

The  wind  rises  and  falls  away  like  a 
whisper. 

On'y  the  wind  blowing  up  over  the  moors.  God's 
breath,  men  call  it.  Ah!  It  strikes  chili  to  the 
bones.  .  .  . 

Is  it  cold  you  are,  my  lad  ?  I  cannot  reach  you 
yonder — on'y  your  feet,  your  poor  broken  feet  and 
the  ankles  hanging  limp  toward  me.  My  bosom 
warms  and  waits  for  you,  hungering,  yearning  like 
the  day  I  bare  you;  but  I  cannot  get  up  to  you:  I 
am  cramped  and  cold  and  beaten :  I  cannot  reach  you 
yonder.  .  .  . 

There  is   heard  a  low  fluttering  as  of 
wings; 

[29] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

The  night-birds  and  the  bats  may  come  anigh 
you,  they  with  their  black  wings;  but  not  your 
mother,  the  mother  that  gave  you  life,  the  mother 
that  held  you  warm,  my  son,  my  son,  my  little  cold 
lad. 

Her  speech  breaks  away  into  sobs  for 
a  little  while.  As  she  recovers,  she 
goes  into  a  dazed  dream  of  memories; 

That  was  a  cold  night,  too — the  night  you  was 
born,  way  out  in  the  country  yonder,  in  the  barn 
with  them  beasties.  My  man,  he  was  sore  about  it. 
He  covered  us  over  with  his  great  wool  coat,  and 
went  and  sat  out  in  the  yard — under  the  stars — till 
them  three  gentlemen  come. 

Them  three  gentlemen.  .  .  .  They  talked  wonder 
ful.  I  have  it  all  here  in  my  heart. 

Ay,  it  was  rare  and  cold  that  night.  Like  now. 
Like  it  is  now.  .  .'-. 

Wonderful.  They  was  not  common  folk.  They 
was  like  lords,  they  spoke  so  fine.  About  my  little 
lad.  About  you. 

And  then,  that  other  night,  before  you  come.     It 

[3°] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

was  a  kind  of  light:  it  was  a  kind  of  glory.  Like 
sunshine.  I  remember  every  word  he  said.  About 
you.  About  my  little  lad. 

The    agony    begins    to    prick    through 
again,  stab  by  stab,  as  she  continues; 

It  was  all  promise  in  them  days,  all  promise  and 
hope.  Like  you  was  to  be  somebody.  Like  you 
was  to  be  a  great  man.  I  kept  it  inside  of  me:  I 
fed  on  it:  day  by  day  as  you  sprung  up,  I  learned 
you  about  it.  You  was  to  be  no  common  man,  you 
wasn't.  You  was  to  lord  it  over  everybody.  You 
was  to  be  a  master  of  men,  you  was.  And  now 
you'm  dead. 

Oh!  ...  Oh!  ...  Oh  me!  ... 

That  day  of  the  fairing,  when  we  went  up  to  the 
big  city,  your  father  and  me  and  yourself.  The  wide 
asking  eyes  of  you,  your  little  hand,  how  it  would 
go  out  so  and  so,  your  little  tongue  all  a-clatter,  the 
ways,  the  wonderings  of  you,  and  the  heartbreak, 
the  heartbreak  when  we  had  you  lost.  Talking  to 
the  good  priests,  you  said.  Good  priests!  My 
God!  .... 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

It  began  that  day,  that  bitter  day  of  the  fairing 
when  we  went  up  to  the  big  city.  I  lost  you  then. 
I  have  lost  you  ever  since. 

Oh,  the  big  city,  the  cruel  city,  the  city  of  men's 
sin!  Calling,  calling  the  sweet  life  of  a  man  and 
swallowing  him  up  in  death.  There  was  no  doing 
with  you  from  that  day.  No  home  for  you  in  the 
little  village  from  that  day.  Your  father's  trade, 
your  tasks,  your  companions,  all  fell  off  from  you 
that  day.  The  city,  the  big  city  called  you,  and 
the  country  thereabouts.  It  was  your  kingdom,  you 
said.  You  must  find  out  and  build  your  kingdom. 
And  the  people  thronged  about  you  and  followed 
you  wherever  you  went  in  them  days.  They  hung 
upon  your  words:  they  worshipped  you.  In  them 
days.  It  was  the  way  you  had — your  strange  way. 
A  power  went  out  from  you.  You  was  always  like 
nobody  else.  A  king!  A  king!  It  was  me  as  put 
it  first  into  your  head.  You  looked  like  a  king. 
You  spoke  like  a  king.  You  ruled  like  a  king.  You, 
the  little  peasant  lad  I  bore.  I  never  told  you:  I 
never  lifted  up  my  hand  to  help  you:  I  hindered 
you;  but  I  was  proud  of  you,  my  lad,  proud  and 
ashamed,  and  afraid,  too!  And  now  it's  too  late. 
You'm  dead.  All  come  to  nothing.  You'm  dead.  .  .  . 

[32] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

Dead.  Killed  by  the  soldiers  and  the  judges  of 
the  great  city.  I'll  tell  them  about  it.  I'll  go 
through  all  the  earth  telling  about  it.  Killed  by  the 
men  you  called  your  brothers.  Killed  by  the  chil 
dren  of  your  kingdom.  Killed,  and  the  golden 
crown  of  your  glory  torn  off,  battered,  and  cast  to 
the  ground.  Beaten,  mocked,  murdered  by  the 
mighty  masters  of  the  world.  Hung  up,  high  up 
in  the  air  like  a  thief.  Broken  and  bleeding  like  a 
slaughtered  beast. 

She  has  come  to  the  bottom  of  her  grief. 
Her  voice  dies  away  through  strangled 
sobs  into  silence. 

A  pause. 

The  CAPTAIN  rises.  He  halts  irreso 
lute  for  a  moment.  Then  he  can  be 
heard  moving  over  to  where  she  lies 
prone  on  the  ground. 

CAPTAIN.   Woman,    will    you    let    me    speak    to 

you  ? 

WOMAN.  Who  are  you  ? 

[33] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  I  am  the  captain  who  spoke  to  you  just 
now.  I  am  in  charge  here.  I  am  the  man  who 
gave  the  order  that  killed  your  son. 

WOMAN.  Ah! .  .  . 

CAPTAIN.  Won't  you  hear  me  ?  I  must  speak  to 
you. 

WOMAN.  What  do  you  want  to  say?  What  is 
there  for  you  to  say  ? 

CAPTAIN.  It  is  about  myself.  .  .  .  I.  .  .  . 
WOMAN.  Go  on.     I'm  listening. 

CAPTAIN.  I  am  a  murderer.  I  want  you  to  for 
give  me. 

She  does  not  answer. 

I  did  it.  I  did  it  with  a  word.  It  was  like  magic. 
One  word,  one  little  word,  and  I  was  a  murderer. 
There  is  nothing  more  terrible  in  the  world  than  to 
be  a  murderer.  .  .  . 

And  now  I  want  you  to  forgive  me. 

[34] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

She  does  not  answer. 

I  suppose  it's  impossible.     Forgiveness  is  impos 
sible  for  a  wretch  like  me.     Because  I  killed  him. 
For  God's  sake,  speak  to  me! 

WOMAN  (in  a  stupor).  I  want  to.  I'm  trying  to. 
But  you  say  you  killed  my  son. 

CAPTAIN.  Oh!  ... 

WOMAN.  Why  did  you  do  it? 

CAPTAIN.  I  did  not  know.  Killing's  my  trade. 
It  was  the  only  thing  they  brought  me  up  to  do. 

She  does  not  answer. 

I  have  been  mixed  up  with  it  ever  since  I  can  re 
member.  My  father  did  it  before  me.  All  my  peo 
ple  did  it.  It  is  considered  the  thing — the  sort  of 
thing  a  gentleman  ought  to  do.  They  call  it  glory: 
they  call  it  honor;  courage;  patriotism.  Great 
kings  hold  their  thrones  by  it.  Great  merchants 
get  their  beastly  riches  by  it.  Great  empires  are 
built  that  way. 

[35] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 
WOMAN.  By  murder? 

CAPTAIN.  By  murder.  By  the  blood  of  just  men. 
Women  and  little  children  too. 

WOMAN.  What  makes  them  do  it  ? 

CAPTAIN.  They  want  money.  They  want  power. 
They  want  kingdom.  They  want  to  possess  the 
earth. 

WOMAN.  And  they  have  won.     They  have  it. 

CAPTAIN.  Have  they  ?  Not  while  your  son  hangs 
there. 

She  is  bewildered. 

WOMAN.  What  do  you  mean  ?  My  son.  .  .  . 
My  son  is  dead. 

CAPTAIN.  Is  he  ?    Not  while  God  is  in  Heaven. 

WOMAN.  I  don't  understand  you.  What  were 
you  saying  yourself,  just  now?  On'y  a  little  while 
ago  I  heard  his  blood  dripping  down  here  in  the 

[36] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

darkness.     The  stones  are  dank  with  it.     Not  an 
hour  ago.     He's  dead. 

CAPTAIN.  He's  alive. 

WOMAN.  Why  do  you  mock  me?  You'm  mad. 
Are  you  God,  as  you  can  kill  and  make  alive,  all  in 
one  breath  ? 

CAPTAIN.  He's  alive.  I  can't  kill  him.  All  the 
empires  can't  kill  him.  How  shall  hate  destroy  the 
power  that  possesses  and  rules  the  earth  ? 

WOMAN.  The  power  that.  .  .  .  W  ho  ? 

CAPTAIN.  This  broken  thing  up  here.  Your 
son. 

WOMAN.  My  son,  the  power  that.  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN.  Listen.     I  will  tell  you.  .  .  . 

I  am  a  soldier.  I  have  been  helping  to  build 
kingdoms  for  over  twenty  years.  I  have  never  known 
any  other  trade.  Soldiery,  bloodshed,  murder:  that's 
my  business.  My  hands  are  crimson  with  it.  That's 
what  empire  means. 

[37] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

In  the  city  I  come  from,  it  is  the  chief  concern  of  the 
people.  Building  kingdoms,  rule,  empire.  They're 
proud  of  it.  The  little  children  in  the  schools  are 
drilled  in  obedience  to  it:  they  are  taught  hymns  in 
praise  of  it:  they  are  brought  up  to  reverence  its 
symbols.  When  they  wave  its  standard  above  them, 
they  shout,  they  leap,  they  make  wild  and  joyful 
noises;  like  animals,  like  wolves,  like  little  brute 
beasts.  Children!  Young  children !  Their  parents 
encourage  them  in  it:  it  never  occurs  to  them  to  feel 
ashamed:  they  would  be  treated  like  lepers  if  they 
felt  ashamed.  That's  what  empire  does  to  human 
beings  in  the  city  I  come  from.  It  springs  from 
fear — a  peculiar  kind  of  fear  they  call  courage. 

And  so  we  go  on  building  our  kingdoms — the 
kingdoms  of  this  world.  We  stretch  out  our  hands, 
greedy,  grasping,  tyrannical,  to  possess  the  earth. 
Domination,  power,  glory,  money,  merchandise, 
luxury,  these  are  the  things  we  aim  at;  but  what  we 
really  gain  is  pest  and  famine,  grudge  labour,  the  en 
slaved  hate  of  men  and  women,  ghosts,  dead  and 
death-breathing  ghosts  that  haunt  our  lives  forever. 
It  can't  last:  it  never  has  lasted,  this  building  in 
blood  and  fear.  Already  our  kingdoms  begin  to 
totter.  Possess  the  earth!  We  have  lost  it.  We 

[38] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

never  did  possess  it.  We  have  lost  both  earth  and 
ourselves  in  trying  to  possess  it;  for  the  soul  of  the 
earth  is  man  and  the  love  of  him,  and  we  have  made 
of  both,  a  desolation. 

I  tell  you,  woman,  this  dead  son  of  yours,  dis 
figured,  shamed,  spat  upon,  has  built  a  kingdom  this 
day  that  can  never  die.  The  living  glory  of  him 
rules  it.  The  earth  is  his  and  he  made  it.  He  and 
his  brothers  have  been  moulding  and  making  it 
through  the  long  ages:  they  are  the  only  ones  who 
ever  really  did  possess  it:  not  the  proud:  not  the 
idle,  not  the  wealthy,  not  the  vaunting  empires  of 
the  world.  Something  has  happened  up  here  on 
this  hill  to-day  to  shake  all  our  kingdoms  of  blood 
and  fear  to  the  dust.  The  earth  is  his,  the  earth  is 
theirs,  and  they  made  it.  The  meek,  the  terrible 
meek,  the  fierce  agonizing  meek,  are  about  to  enter 
into  their  inheritance. 

There  is  a  deep,  solemn  silence  for  a 
moment  or  two,  broken  only  by  the 
tinkle  of  sheep-bells,  which  are  gradu 
ally  approaching. 

WOMAN.  Then  it  was  not  all  wasted.     It  was  the 
truth,  that  night.     I  have  borne  a  Man. 
6  [39] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  A  man  and  more  than  a  man.     A  King. 

WOMAN.  My  peasant  lad,  a  king:  Yes.  And 
more  yet.  He  was  what  he  said  he  was.  He  was 
God's  Son. 


CAPTAIN.  It  will  take  a  new  kind  of  soldier  to  serve 
in  his  kingdom.     A  new  kind  of  duty. 

WOMAN.  A  newer  courage.     More  like  woman's. 
Dealing  with  life,  not  death. 

CAPTAIN.  It  changes  everything. 

WOMAN.  It  puts  them  back  again.    What  he  done, 
puts  all  things  back  again,  where  they  belong. 

CAPTAIN.  I  can  see  the  end  of  war  in  this :  some  day. 

WOMAN.  I  can  see  the  joy  of  women  and  little 
children:  some  day. 

CAPTAIN.  I  can  see  cities  and  great  spaces  of  land 
full  of  happiness. 

WOMAN.  I  can  see  love  shining  in  every  face, 

[40] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  There  shall  be  no  more  sin,  no  pain.  .  .  . 

WOMAN.  No  loss,  no  death.  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN.  Only  life,  only  God.  .  .  . 

WOMAN.  And  the  kingdom  of  my  Son.  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN.  Some  day. 

WOMAN.  When  the  world  shall  have  learned. 

CAPTAIN.  Mother!  ...  I  am  a  murderer!  .  .  . 

WOMAN.    I    have    been    with    Child.      I    forgive 
you. 

It  grows  a  little  lighter. 

Some  one  is  heard  stumbling  blindly  over 
the  hill.  It  is  the  SOLDIER.  His 
form  emerges  gray  out  of  the  gloom. 

SOLDIER.  'Ello!    Are  you  there,  Captain? 
CAPTAIN.  Yes.     I'm  here. 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

SOLDIER.  The  fog's  liftin'  dahn  below  there — lift- 
in'  fast.     It  '11  soon  be  up  orf  this  'ill,  thank  Gawd ! 
The  General  wants  ter  see  you,  sir. 

CAPTAIN.  What  does  he  want  with  me  ?  Do  you 
know  ? 

SOLDIER.  Another  of  these  'ere  bleedin'  jobs,  I 
think,  sir.  Been  a  bit  of  a  disturbance  dahn  in  the 
tahn.  The  boys  'ave  their  orders,  sir.  General 
wants  you  ter  take  command. 

CAPTAIN.  Tell  him  I  refuse  to  come. 

SOLDIER.  Beg  pawdon,  sir.  .  .  . 

CAPTAIN.  I  refuse  to  come.     I  disobey. 

SOLDIER.  I  don't  think  I  quite  'eard,  sir. 

CAPTAIN.  I  disobey.  I  have  sworn  duty  to  an 
other  General.  I  serve  the  Empire  no  longer. 

SOLDIER.  Beg  pawdon,  sir,  it's  not  for  the 
likes  of  me;  but  .  .  .  Well,  you  know  wot  that 
means. 

[42] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

CAPTAIN.  Perfectly.     It    means    what    you    call 
death.     Tell  the  General. 

SOLDIER.  Tell  'im  as  you  refuse  to  obey  orders,  sir  ? 

CAPTAIN.  His:    yes.     (Half    to    himself);     How 
simple  it  all  is,  after  all. 

SOLDIER  (after  a  moment);  I'm  sorry,  Captain. 
CAPTAIN.  Thank  you,  brother. 

The  SOLDIER  has  no  word  to  say. 

The  darkness  is  rapidly  melting  away. 
All  three  figures  are  now  beginning  to 
be  seen  quite  clearly. 

SOLDIER.  Look  sir,  wot  did  I  tell  yer  ?     It's  corn- 
in'  light  again. 

CAPTAIN.  Eternally. 

An  unearthly  splendour  fills  the  place. 
It  is  seen  to  be  the  top  of  a  bleak  stony 
hill  with  little  grass  to  it. 

[43] 


THE    TERRIBLE    MEEK 

The  WOMAN  is  dressed  in  Eastern  gar 
ments;  the  CAPTAIN  is  a  Roman 
centurion;  the  SOLDIER,  a  Roman 
legionary.  Above  them  rise  three 
gaunt  crosses  bearing  three  dead  men 
gibbeted  like  thieves. 

At  the  foot  of  the  crosses  a  flock  of  sheep 
nibble  peacefully  at  the  grass.  The 
air  is  filled  with  the  sound  of  their 
little  bells. 


CURTAIN 


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LIBRARY,   UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,   DAVIS 

Book  Slip-55w-10,'68(  J4048s8)458 — A3 1  /5 


N9   586233 

Kennedy,   C.R. 

The  Terrible  meek. 


PS3521 

E53 

T4 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


